


better than

by salvage



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Podfic Available, basically the most tender and intimate 1600 words i have ever written in my life, face touching, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvage/pseuds/salvage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You said it was better than looking, right?” Foggy leans over and places his bottle on the coffee table, then turns to face Matt, folding one leg on the couch and leaning forward. His heart rate is normal. </p><p>Matt surreptitiously wipes his palms on his thighs. “That I did,” he says, dragging air into his lungs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	better than

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing. This fucking pairing. 
> 
> Thanks to [traincat](http://traincat.tumblr.com/) for her tireless work going through Daredevil back issues and texting me more Matt/Foggy moments than my heart could even handle. She's the hero this pairing deserves.

“Whatever happened with Marci, anyway?” Matt asks, a couple beers in. His senses are pleasantly dulled, street noise a soft roar in the background, the details of a raised voice, a bicycle tire running over a shard of glass, a taxi door slamming shut all too easy to ignore. He rolls his nearly empty bottle with the flat of his palm along the outside of his thigh, listening to the faint slosh of flat liquid, the tap of his callused skin echoing inside the bottle.

Foggy makes a noncommittal noise. “It didn’t… it wasn’t like it used to be.” He takes a sip of beer, lips drawing off the neck of the bottle with a soft pop. He doesn’t ask how Matt knows; Matt doesn’t tell him he hasn’t smelled of her perfume in weeks. (Of all the fragrances she could have worn, Chanel Chance was not the most offensive, he had to admit. Still, the bright top notes had usually nearly gone by the time Matt would see Foggy, leaving Matt to muddle through the faint jasminey, flowery haze for a few hours, and Matt personally found the patchouli and white musk base a little too fragrant when it clung to the delicate skin of Foggy’s jaw, the backs of his hands. He prefers when Foggy just smells like Foggy, his store-brand laundry detergent and Old Spice deodorant and the women’s shampoo he claims makes his hair “so much silkier, man, come on, just touch it, it feels amazing,” the scent of his skin and the sweat that beads on the nape of his neck and his upper lip on sticky-hot New York City afternoons.)

“I’m sorry,” Matt says. The electronic billboard outside his window buzzes faintly in the distance. He isn’t lying. 

“Don’t be. I may not look like you do but I’m a young partner at an up-and-coming law firm, I have prospects.” There’s a smile in Foggy’s voice. He gestures toward Matt with his bottle to prove his point, the beer inside fizzing as it’s jostled.

This is well-worn territory for them, but it still rubs Matt the wrong way. “Don’t say that. About how you look.” 

“I’m just being honest about what I’ve got going for me,” Foggy says with a shrug, good humor still fully intact. “It doesn’t bother me. Not everyone can be an unbearably handsome defense lawyer by day _and_ a superpowered heroic crimefigher by night, you know.” 

“I’m serious,” Matt says, though he can’t help the laugh that threads through the words. 

“Come on, you use your freaky fire vision to fight crime! It’s gotta be good enough to know.” The fabric of Foggy’s shirt pulls tight across his back, his unbuttoned cuff sliding loose against his soft skin as he gestures expansively with one hand.

Matt finishes off what’s left in his bottle. “It works fine with faces, but touch is better,” he says, leaning forward and placing the bottle on the coffee table with a soft, hollow clink. “Anyway, that’s not what this is about!” 

“That’s exactly what this is about!” Foggy pauses. “What is this about?”

“This is about you being good-looking,” Matt says. “You’re not going to win this argument.” His downstairs neighbor turns on her TV, a burst of infomercial chatter momentarily distracting him from the rustle of Foggy’s shirt, the prickle of the soft ends of his hair across the collar as he shakes his head. 

“Says _the blind man_ …” Foggy says, raising his eyebrows significantly. “I’m raising my eyebrows significantly.” 

Matt knows. He can see Foggy’s face in his mind, contours of heat in the cool room: the little smile that turns up the corners of his lips, the faint skeptical crease in his forehead. His hair is slightly disheveled from when he ran his hand through it earlier. His cheeks are alcohol-warm. 

“Look, man, I know it’s kinda weird, but I’m a little drunk and I’m really invested in winning this argument,” Foggy begins, and only because Matt knows what’s coming next can he school his face into a neutral expression. A wave of heat washes over his body, leaving prickly anticipation in its wake. “Just touch my face.” 

“Foggy, I—”

“You said it was better than looking, right?” Foggy leans over and places his bottle on the coffee table, then turns to face Matt, folding one leg on the couch and leaning forward. His heart rate is normal. 

Matt surreptitiously wipes his palms on his thighs. “That I did,” he says, dragging air into his lungs. He can tell the couple in 2A is eating Thai food delivered from the place on 49th and 9th; the woman in 3D is giving her labrador puppy a bath with baby shampoo; two teenage girls in 5B are microwaving pizza rolls as they wait for one girl’s hair dye to set. He reels in the lines of his awareness and is left with Foggy, his women’s shampoo and the deodorant he’s almost sweated through and the beer they’ve been drinking. His dry palms and even heartbeat.

Matt shifts so his posture mirrors Foggy’s, purposely not flinching when their knees bump and come to rest against each other. He drops his left hand into his lap, half-curled, and slowly reaches out with his right: wrist down but palm tipped up, toward Foggy, fingers slightly splayed, already tingling with anticipation. Arm steady.

Foggy’s skin is warm and so soft Matt can barely feel it under the callused pads of his fingertips. He keeps his touch light, tracing down the side of Foggy’s nose and across the curve of his cheek before stretching out his fingers and fully cupping his hand on the side of Foggy’s face, fingertips at the curve of his ear, heel of his palm near the corner of Foggy’s mouth. All he can think of is how warm Foggy’s skin is. He can feel the rush of blood through Foggy’s capillaries. He slides his hand up so that his fingertips catch in the silk-smooth strands of Foggy’s hair, tracing the orbital of his eye, the edge of his eyebrow. Foggy’s eyes flutter closed and Matt gently drifts the pad of his thumb over one, feeling the twitch of his raised iris, the soft sweep of his eyelashes.

“What color are your eyes?” Matt breathes.

“Blue,” Foggy says. Matt feels the vibration of his throat, the soft dry press of his lips. He brings his left hand up to Foggy’s throat, using the backs of his fingers to trace up from Foggy’s unbuttoned shirt collar, across the barely-there prickle of the stubble coming in on the soft underside of his jaw. He uncurls his fingers, laying them flat across the lower right half of Foggy’s face, framing Foggy’s features carefully with both hands.

Foggy takes a careful, quiet breath. His heartbeat is speeding up, drowning out the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the modem, the rush of water through the pipes in the building’s walls, the skittering of insects on the brick outside, the slow decay of the fruit in the bowl on Matt’s countertop. Drowning out Matt’s own. Matt moves his hand again, his thumb ghosting over the small dip between Foggy’s lower lip and chin, then moving down to rest in the soft hollow under Foggy’s jaw as he traces Foggy’s mouth, feeling the plush give of Foggy’s lower lip under his fingertips. 

Matt cards his fingers through Foggy’s silky hair, the heel of his right hand skating over the whorl of Foggy’s ear as he brings his hand around to the back of Foggy’s head. Foggy’s breath catches. The rough pads of Matt’s fingers still hover over his lips, parted just enough for Matt to feel the warmth of the inside of his mouth. Matt’s blood has never roared louder in his own ears; when he takes a breath, it’s unsteady. 

“I don’t think you’ll win this argument, Foggy,” he says, voice soft. 

Foggy’s eyes blink open. “Oh?” He sounds like he’s just awoken from sleep.

Matt leans forward, slowly enough for Foggy to move or protest or dislodge Matt’s hands from where they rest on the back of his head, at the corner of his mouth. He slides his left hand to cup Foggy’s jaw, fingertips just skirting the edge of his sideburn. Foggy takes a small, soft breath. Matt can hear the pounding of Foggy’s heart, the rush of his blood, the faint wet sound of his alveoli, all the processes that keep Foggy alive. He kisses him.

Foggy’s mouth is warm and new. They are both still for a breathless moment before Matt moves just enough for the kiss to end and begin again, reconstituting into something softer and hotter. Matt’s chapped lower lip catches and drags on Foggy’s when he opens his mouth slightly. The slide of their lips together is tender and almost unbearably intimate. They part with a soft wet sound that Matt can’t help but repeat, then repeat again when Foggy sighs, gentle and close and sweet. Their noses bump and Foggy tilts his head to the side slightly; every little change to their positions feels like a revelation. 

Matt takes a sharp breath and presses forward for one last, exhilarating moment, fingers tightening in Foggy’s hair, eyes shut, someone’s pulse pounding in his ears, then finally draws back. His lips are tingling. Reluctantly, he removes his hand from Foggy’s hair, letting the strands drift over his fingers, feeling the ragged ends brush his knuckles as he touches the side of Foggy’s neck, thumb sweeping toward his adam’s apple before his palm catches on Foggy’s shirt collar. The apartment sounds quieter than it ever has before, noise from the street seeming very far away. Matt feels overheated and a chasm of guilt and self-doubt begins to crack open in his chest.

Foggy lifts a hand, hovering it in the small, warm space between their bodies, fingers twitching, before bringing it to Matt’s unshaven cheek. His thumb scrapes affectionately over Matt’s stubble. A wry smile steals over his face as he looks at Matt; his mouth is still warm with the heat from Matt’s own skin. When he speaks, his voice is a little raw, his heartbeat still steady. “I’ve never felt better about losing.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Better Than](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590900) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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